Clay Pots in the Suburbs
Can a star-chart tell me you were brought to a Fugazi show as a child?
Can it tell me if you'll drink all the Rose in the fridge?
Twenty-four packs are the smell of a chlorinated pool
Backseat of a tinted window Uber
Perfect holiday sleeping with you
And I can feel it / I can feel myself growing
When I slip into an orgasm induced vision
There's a man repeating
"I'm a good father"
And I don't know if it's me, or a sitcom dad
Calm and catch me
Some classical composition sleep-break
I dive into the void
And I live on your table
I wish I could strangle my midnight self
Unroll the khaki
And brush the cat hair from your turtleneck
Sometime really early in the morning
An eyelash curls up toward
A soft and beige feeling
You spoke so soft of foreign film, and this mint oil
I can't execute any command
Tied to an oxford sort of design
I gallop and listlessly fumble with defunct library cards
Day-dream of "river hangs"
Gah, I feel like I want to be buried with ancient stones
That somehow glow blue
But I promise blue isn't my favourite colour
Once I took off I knew it wouldn't be like
So many car rides with my ma'
To grab batteries / like we were grabbing them for the sun
One trillion sunsets witnessed
I made orbit to find debris
In formation, and in the shape of your first car
Hovering above shifting plates
A whole world about to crack like porcelain
My helmet felt like wet hair
I called your old Nokia
You couldn't pick it up in time
Alexander Buchanan is a poet and space enthusiast living in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. His work has been featured in Little River Literary Magazine and zine projects.